


painted heart

by sannlykke



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Bodyswap, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Kitsune, M/M, Mentions of MidoTaka, some vague mention of gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-09-10
Packaged: 2018-04-14 20:58:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4579839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sannlykke/pseuds/sannlykke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I will trace the contours of your body, but they are roads I can never roam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Artist

**Author's Note:**

> happy obon!! and with that i present this supernatural Thing that's been languishing in my drafts for a month. it's ostensibly a painted skin au but really all you need to know is there are foxes and they eat people (partially) but they also want to become people (or do they.)
> 
> (one day - _one day_ \- i will stop writing angsty historical court shenanigans mayuaka and instead turn my attention to snarky modern domestic shenanigans mayuaka. unfortunately today is not that day.)
> 
>  
> 
>   
> "A word squandered, a melancholy note, and your eyes hold only grief,  
> What lovely myths spelled under this moonlight are doomed to the past.  
> In the wind your sweet fragrance lingers, never to leave.  
> I can draw your blood, but it will never [flow](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WkJVjCFkzNQ)."  
> 

“Are you here to eat me?”

His voice is barely above a whisper, but Seijuurou knows the creature has heard.

Moonlight spills into the room from his open window, and he shivers from the cold. Glowing eyes watch him from across the room, and the thing takes a step forward. Seijuurou can see white fur and sharp claws.  _Fox_.

The books in the palace library were full of tales of demons, ghouls, bewitching things of the night. If this is one such creature, it looks less mean than thin and hungry.

“Not all of you.”

It smiles - at least, Seijuurou imagines it to be a smile, though it is not a pleasant one. He reaches out quickly, pushing a bedside vase to the ground. The resounding smash does not deter the creature.

Footsteps and shouting outside Seijuurou’s door however, do. The child watches it melt back into the darkness, shuffling, gone.

It leaves behind a scent of peonies.

 

 

**fifteen years later**

 

 

He grips the reins tightly as Yukimaru’s hooves thunder beneath him, man and horse charging down the mountainside path. Dust swirls in their wake, then the sound of running paws.

Seijuurou chances a look back, and sure enough, the bear is still upon them.

This had been a foolish venture from the start, and he chastises himself as they reach an open clearing, with a vast expanse of lake lying before him. A hunting trip gone awry, the last of his arrows used up…and still, the crashing sounds behind are catching up. Snow has begun to fall again, lightly, but melt quickly against his face.

He smiles grimly, loosening his right hand to reach for the sword in his belt. Yukimaru gallops along the lake, splashing water and cracking ice. Any moment now, he would have to stop.

An arrow thrums past his head, shearing off several strands of crimson. Seijuurou hears an anguished roar behind him, and a louder splash; he pulls at Yukimaru’s reins, coming to a halt. A single backwards look confirms the bear’s death, a new arrow protruding from its skull.

He jumps down, walking back cautiously towards the prone form. Behind him, Yukimaru whinnies, stomping the ground; Seijuurou doesn’t turn, yet. “You almost got me.”

“But I didn’t.”

Seijuurou prods the bear’s head with his sword, noting the broken arrows from where he’d shot at it himself. Two almost buried in the chest, one on the shoulder. The fourth, the killing arrow, is one he’d shot into the forest earlier. He recognizes it by the red fletching, the arrow itself completely buried in the animal. His gaze flickers sideways, at the man who’d come up beside him in silence. “What is your name?”

Despite his silver-gray hair, he looks young, not much older than Seijuurou himself. Robes of muted gray fall to his ankles, with darkened patches from the water splashing on it. He shoulders his bow with an indifferent air, watching the redhead with measured calm. There isn’t much in those eyes Seijuurou can see. “Mayuzumi. And you’re welcome.”

 _Ah_. He allows himself a wry smile. “You saved my life. I am very grateful.”

“Was just passing through, anyway.” Mayuzumi shrugs, pointing at the forest from where Seijuurou came. “Found that arrow buried in a tree. Yours?”

“Yes. How fortunate.” Seijuurou hears the sound of other horses, drawing near. The rest of his retinue that had been separated from him, he supposes. He notices Mayuzumi does not have a quiver. “How shall I thank you?”

“You can start by telling me your name.”

“Akashi!”

 _Well, that was that._  Seijuurou shakes his head at the two arriving horsemen, each looking more harried than the next. “I’m fine, don’t rush. Did you get the boar, Reo?”

“Sorry, Sei-chan, it ran off.” Mibuchi, his advisor, wipes his forehead and shivers despite the five layers of furs he was wearing. He looks down at the dead bear lying further off, wrinkling his nose. “Did you kill it?”

“No,” Seijuurou said, and looks in Mayuzumi’s direction. “He did.”

“Oh?” Mibuchi spares the briefest of glances at the stranger, breathing a sigh in relief. “Well, that’s good. Sei-chan, we should head back now. That was too dangerous.”

“Yeah,” Hayama quips from behind, lowering his voice as he continued, “Didn’t you hear about the murders? I heard this morning the city guards found people with their hearts carved—”

“Hayama! Stop it,” Mibuchi raps at Hayama’s hand quickly with horror in his voice. He turns back to Seijuurou. “Shall we go?”

“Yes.” Yukimaru nuzzles at his arm quietly as he watches his two retainers make ready to leave. Seijuurou glances back at Mayuzumi, who has not said a word the entire exchange. He almost looks  _bored_. Somehow, the look suits him. “Would you like to accompany me back to the city, Mayuzumi-san? I still have to properly thank you for what you did back there.”

“Hm? Oh.” Mayuzumi makes as if to think about it, then nods. “It isn’t a big deal, but I suppose I have to find somewhere to stay tonight.”

“You are not from around here.”

“No.”

“You may stay at my house for the night, if you so wish.” Seijuurou ventures, swinging his legs gracefully over Yukimaru’s back. “I insist.”

“If you say so.”

Seijuurou cannot see it, but there is a detectable smile in that voice.

 

 

“Tell me about yourself,” Akashi says.  _Commands_. The feast is over, and the muted voices of servants float past the door. They are in one of the king’s private rooms, down long hallways that seem more familiar with every step Chihiro takes.

Chihiro doesn’t like being commanded. Of course, he had come here of his own free will—Akashi had invited him, had wined and dined him in the fashion of a lord. A  _real_  one. He wishes it were enough—that would make things much easier.

Instead, he shrugs. “Not much to tell. My lord.”

Akashi hums. “Is that so.”

(There’s something about his voice that aggravates Chihiro, but at the same time he finds himself drawn to it. Compelled, in a way. It’s probably why everyone seems so reverential of him—well,  _he_  isn’t here to worship Akashi.)

“I have never seen an arrow pierce through an animal like that before,” Akashi continues, bringing out a shamisen from beneath the large drawer behind him. “Not even Nebuya can do such a feat. Yet you brought very little attention to yourself during the meal. Was the food not satisfying?”

“Is there a point in analyzing me?” He snorts, eyes trained on Akashi’s fingers fine-tuning the instrument.

“You know how to play this.”

“Maybe.” The word slips out, and he is caught. Akashi stares at him placatingly until he shakes his head. “Fine. I do.”

“Will you not play for me?”

Chihiro bites back a retort. So far Akashi has yet to reprimand him for utter lack of respect for his superiors—not that he gives it so freely to anyone who asks, noble or otherwise. But he is here for one thing only.

So he plays.

 

 

(“There has not been a court musician here in a year. Won’t you stay?”

Maybe that is all there is to it—chance, and some years between them, that drew him back to this city. It does not seem all that long ago to Chihiro, but time flows differently for all.

He has always been invisible, willingly or otherwise, but Akashi gives him pause. The way he talks, moves as if the world should step aside for him at any given moment. The way his eyes glint like hard steel to make way for soft silk, how he insidiously pries his way into the lives of those around him and makes them sing. Even the way he poses his questions, as simply pretext to answers he already knows.

There should be a limit—where it is, Chihiro doesn’t know, though he accepts the proposal almost immediately. He has little patience for the whims of an overbearing tyrant, but he has not had an entire garden for his picking in a very, very long time.

And Akashi Seijuurou, for all his show of indestructibility, is only human after all.

He’s already seen the hunger in those eyes, and there is something to be said of a thrill in the chase.)

 

 

Nebuya raises an eyebrow. “A new court musician? Why don’t I remember seeing this guy?”

“That was a month ago! You’re not here often enough, Eiki-chan,” Mibuchi sniffs, earning himself a glare. He turns his attention back on Seijuurou. “But we can talk about that later. Sei-chan, what about the…what the city guards reported?”

Seijuurou stares at him. “What about them? Have you not already dispatched the investigators?”

“There was another attack yesterday,” Hayama says in a low voice. “The captain of the guards just came to report. A man this time, near the city centre.”

“…Is his heart also gone?”

The look on their faces confirm his thoughts. Seijuurou sits straight in his chair, mouth pressed to a thin line. “If they do not find the perpetrator by tonight, I will investigate myself. Reo, please ask the city guard to increase patrols.”

Mibuchi gives a short bow and sweeps out the door. Nebuya and Hayama take their leave soon after, and the room is quiet once more. Then, a melodious twang of the shamisen.

“Best stay inside for the next few days,” he says quietly, watching Mayuzumi pluck at the strings in the corner. “Even the rooftop might not be safe.”

It is with some satisfaction he sees Mayuzumi finally looks up, something almost like chagrin on his face. “Were you following me?”

“This is my castle,” Seijuurou smiles at him, teeth bared. “I go up there sometimes, when the moon is full. You can see the whole city from above.”

“…” Mayuzumi pushes the shamisen away, leaning back against the wall. He is looking at the ground, away from Seijuurou’s gaze. Seijuurou watches him run a hand through his silvery hair, the pale of his forearm exposed; there is muscle, but not of one long used to the strain of the bow. “I should have asked. Sorry.”

Seijuurou blinks slowly. “Did you grow up in the countryside?”

The other man visibly flushes. “I didn’t grow up around nobility, if that’s what you’re asking … my lord.”

“Watch it,” Seijuurou murmurs, eyes half-closed. “Regardless of whatever titles you use to refer to me, I do not tolerate dismissiveness. Even from one who saved my life. Understood?”

“…Yes.”

 _Well then_ , Seijuurou thinks, observing the sullenness melt away into a blank stare—he can tell Mayuzumi is irritated, but there is nothing a few gentle pushes in the right direction can’t correct. Though even after a month of seeing him—Seijuurou doesn’t quite know what it is about him that he could not place. 

The music starts again, mournful, and he watches Mayuzumi’s fingers fly across the strings. A familiar melody, one that seems to travel through field and forest, mountain and valley, dipping into the recesses of his memory and lifting, fluidly, its contents. Seijuurou is all ears now, and no wonder; this is the song his mother used to play for him, years upon years ago. The notes caress his face, and his eyelids droop.

(Something tugs at his heart, once, twice, then stills.)

He waits until the last note is dropped from the air before speaking, eyes still closed. “…Where did you learn this song?”

“Somewhere long ago and far away.” Seijuurou opens an eye, studying Mayuzumi’s face. “That’s the real answer. I travel a lot.”

Seijuurou could have guessed as much, but this time he opts to listen to Mayuzumi stand up and put the instrument away. “Isn’t there something you want to tell me…Chihiro?”

Gray eyes turn on him quickly, narrowing. “I don’t remember ever telling you my first name.”

“I saw it carved on your bow.” Seijuurou tilts his head. A month ago, and it is not a lie, though this is the first time he has felt inclined to use it. In any case, he doubts intention matters much to Mayuzumi right now. “It’s a nice name. Your parents—”

“I picked it for myself,” Mayuzumi says, quietly, and Seijuurou almost hears a note of pleading in his tone. He sits up, intrigued by that trail of thought. “If you will excuse me.”

Seijuurou finds himself nodding, and watches him walk across the room, carrying himself tall. He wants to tell Mayuzumi to stop, ask him more, but there is a lump in his throat he had not realized was there until now.

“You’re lucky I like your music,” Seijuurou whispers into the empty room, although that is only half the truth.

 

 

(He spends his time purposefully, always, and even observing people is deemed fit under that category. Seijuurou knows the ins and outs of every secret passageway and the kitchen gossip relayed during mealtimes—as much as he does not care about it, there is nothing less crucial to ruling than knowing what those who you rule think about you.

Mayuzumi does not partake in gossip. Nor does he, at least for that night Seijuurou watched him climb up the stairs in full view of anyone passing by, make use of any secret passageways. He eats little and sleeps even less, and seems to spend most of his off-duty time vanishing before the eyes of the most seasoned of Seijuurou’s trackers.

“Where do you go when you’re not playing for me?” Seijuurou had asked him once, firmly planting himself between Mayuzumi and the rest of the hallway. “And fix your clothes.”

The last part had been unexpected, and Seijuurou did not much like the thought of spontaneously voicing his inner thoughts—though Mayuzumi had not noticed. Perhaps he was used to the cold from traveling, Seijuurou had thought, watching the musician draw his collar up to cover pale, exposed collarbones. Mayuzumi’s eyes had met his briefly, bland as always, before looking aside.

“Around the city.”

How exactly had Seijuurou gotten it into him to let Mayuzumi leave after such an answer—well.

 _Around the city_. Alone, a foreign phrase, one that Seijuurou knows little about. Of course he is alone, all the time, but his retainers are never far behind. It had been like that even fifteen years ago, hadn’t it? He pushes, others react, always one step behind each and every calculation. But there is always someone else.

The thrill of the chase—yes, that’s what it is. Seijuurou would never have a scenario like the bear happen again but in reverse.)

 

 

“So troublesome…”

It had already been a given how much trouble Akashi would give him, but the young lord seems to be a step ahead of him every time. Not that Chihiro thinks Akashi knows what he’s  _really_  after—at worst, he will probably be suspected to be an assassin.

Technically that is not entirely false, but Chihiro does not like to think of himself in that way. He isn’t even here to  _kill_  Akashi.

(Though there are times he thinks Akashi is deliberately daring him to.)

He slips into one of the many dark alleyways of the walled city, hoping for some respite from Akashi’s condescension and his own inabilities. Perhaps he could find someone else to make a deal with here instead, though—he would really rather be a lord than a peasant, all things considered.

A half-open door greets him, the fire flickering inside drawing him near. The cold does not bother Chihiro, but the fire tells him something more important—that there is someone home.

He hears two guards walk past the mouth of the alleyway, looking in briefly before moving on. They cannot see him in the shadows, and he moves, fluidly, into the warmth of a stranger’s house.

The door shuts.

Chihiro catches the firelight glancing off the object before it makes contact with him, and he steps aside, letting the blade cut through nothing. The forward momentum propels his assailant careening towards the open space. Chihiro takes this chance to give them a further push, sending the person sprawling.

He steps on the man’s sword hand before he could get up again.  _Another wasted opportunity, no thanks to this buffoon._  “The hell was that for?”

“…I knew it.”

“Knew…?” Chihiro reaches down to grab the man’s head, but is instead met with another knife. This time he is not so lucky; the blade pierces into his shoulder, and Chihiro bites down on his gasp as he wrenches it away from the man. The pain is unfamiliar and real, enough to tell him that was no ordinary blade.  _Shit_. “What the  _fuck—“_

The man struggles to sit up, but this time Chihiro is having none of it. He half-drags the man towards the wall and pins him there, despite the pain darts shooting up and down his injured area. “Who the  _hell_  are you.”

“Are you here for my heart?” The man spat at him, spit dribbling down his scraggly beard. His face is almost demented in the firelight, and Chihiro applies more pressure to the chokehold. “Kill me then, and they’re going to find you.  _Demon_.”

“Shut up.” 

“Are you scared? You should be—that won’t be healing so fast now, scum.” The man grins up at him insolently, and Chihiro can feel the heat rise inside him. “They’ll find you, and they’ll rip you to—”

“Shut  _up_!”

A sickening crunch ends the volley of insults. Chihiro sits back, observing his handiwork dully as the flame dies away inside. The man’s blood—and  _other things_ , he notes, though he is not sure what they are—glistens all over his right fist, dripping to the ground in dark splatters. It’s disgusting, but there is no use in letting this all go to waste now.

Chihiro reaches for the man’s stilled chest, and begins his night’s work.

 

 

(If one were to ask  _how_  he had been born, he wouldn’t know. If he was ever human to begin with and had traded that away a thousand years ago, if he  _wasn’t_ , which was all the more plausible—memory is a hazy thing.

If Chihiro doesn’t get along with humans, he gets along with his own kind even less. He has always been solitary, and situations that required coming into contact with others were always few and far between. His name is the only memory he has been carrying since time began turning for him, but as to who even gave it to him—kitsune do not have human names, not usually.

Perhaps that was why he started observing these fragile creatures, taking their strange habits for his own, learning the way their voices flowed and fingers danced. It was only natural for a species of like intelligence, he thought. And it was only natural that he found himself tracing his footsteps back, to the sights and sounds that caught his interest, to Akashi Seijuurou of fifteen years ago. Only he wasn’t so small and helpless now, but his heart still pumped the warm human blood that his kind craved flowed through their own bodies, drawing destruction and despair.

Chihiro had never cared much before then, but somewhere along the way his feet had started tiring.

And he started, slowly at first,  _wanting_.)

 

 

Seijuurou watches him stumble into the hallway, and decides this is the moment to show himself.

“Chihiro.”

Mayuzumi looks up, his expression less startled than weary. “Akashi.”

“I thought I said not to go outside tonight.”

“You said  _best_  not to.” Seijuurou notices one of his sleeves is torn, and the dark gash on a sliver of skin. The hallway is dark, but the moonlight streaming through the window tells the young lord that Mayuzumi is looking away. “But you were right.”

Seijuurou steps forward until he is two paces away from Mayuzumi, inspecting the wound. The bright crimson of the slit runs deep, but he sees no bleeding. “Did you see the perpetrator?”

“I wanted to go see the fountain,” Mayuzumi says, gritting his teeth as Akashi presses a finger on the skin next to the wound. He does not seem all that bothered about their closeness, Seijuurou thinks, and his eyes flicker upward. The moonlight paints his hair white as snow. “In the full moon. Stupid, yeah, don’t tell me. I didn’t really see his face. Long tangled hair, that’s all I saw before he attacked me.”

“I see.” Seijuurou sighs. The thought sits heavy on his stomach, suppressing those memories that threaten to spill. “Well, he will be harder to catch, now. But come, you need that bandaged.”

“I’ll be fine,” Mayuzumi replies, but Seijuurou grabs his hand and leads him back to his room.

 

 

Chihiro watches him expertly knot the white material together, wincing as Akashi applies some pressure to the cleaned wound. He can still feel it throb, as the man had said, though the hurt was not of blood or bone. A wry grin stops before it reaches his lips; a cursed blade from some half-assed exorcist is not enough to stop him.

(He wonders if Akashi has noticed.)

“There,” Akashi says, laying down the spare fabric away from the bed. “If it bleeds—“

“It’s fine,” he quickly intercepts, watching Akashi’s expression change ever so slightly. “Really. But…thank you.”

Akashi smiles at him briefly, then looks out his window. The snow is falling again, Chihiro realizes, and the room is cold. “Has anyone told you what happened here fifteen years ago?”

“No.”

The young lord’s eyes close as he relates the story, one already sunken into Chihiro’s memory. “There was a murder. A dead man with his heart carved out. My father dispatched the best of the city’s force to investigate, of course, in addition to a foreign expedition. They say the murderer got away, killing one of the foreigners in the process. A pity they survived; now they shall deal with me.”

 _Yes, a pity._ Chihiro keeps his voice even as he speaks. “Just one?”

“It would’ve been two,” Akashi replies slowly. His gaze flickers to the shadows thrown onto the floor, between his dresser and wall across the room. “But yes. Just one.”

Silence overtakes them, bit by bit, until Chihiro feels Akashi’s hand, surprisingly warm, steal into his. He blinks in surprise as Akashi lifts it, watching him intently. 

_You have him now._

“Akashi…?”

“Chihiro.” Scarlet eyes command him to look up, even as the distance between them closes. Akashi’s words are barely a whisper, but Chihiro can hear every word. “A thousand searches. What have you been searching for?”

Their eyes lock, and Chihiro can see that little boy from all those years ago, his childish arrogance, wit and soul, neatly packaged and ready for consumption. He pushes Akashi down onto the bedspread, lips parting, and says—

 

 

( _He’s cold, so cold—_

“Sing for me,” Seijuurou murmurs at some point. his hands lost somewhere between Mayuzumi’s hair and forever. “You _—_ you grew up in the country, didn’t you. Tell me of nature _—_ ”

He gasps, feeling the sharp bite at his collar melt into birdsong, insects chirping, fallen leaves rustling over unswept floors. The sound of the sea batters at his chest, waves crashing over mountains high enough to pierce the heavens. Mayuzumi’s fingers trace the curves of his body, painting invisible lines over the bumps of his skin, drawing wings on his shoulder blades. Seijuurou meets his kiss, and tastes blood.

_Does he bleed, truly? Or is it from whoever that poor soul was, hours ago—or was it years, centuries?_

A slow fire burns underneath his skin, tingling, shuddering at every caress. Centuries now, maybe more—Seijuurou doesn’t know eternity, but he imagines it close to Mayuzumi’s perfectly unlined face and every inch of his false porcelain skin.  _Am I making love to my own death?_

“Tell me, Akashi Seijuurou, what you want the most.”

Seijuurou’s fingers dig deep into Mayuzumi’s skin. He shifts forward, laughing softly, mouth brushing the corner of his musician’s ear. Pressed against him, Seijuurou can smell the peonies, and feel the stillness of his chest.  _Yes,_   _I’ve always known._  “What is your price?”

Mayuzumi hums, a hand tracing Seijuurou’s beating heart. “I think you already know.”)


	2. The Creation

His hair is changing, becoming red, but Seijuurou can still see the silver gleaming beneath. If he had never believed— _no_ , _I always have_ —that had been a phantom’s whisper, long ago and far away. 

They stare at each other, upside-down. It is an impossible angle, even for someone as reality-defying as Akashi Seijuurou.

Seijuurou does not remember bleeding. Nor does Mayuzumi bleed—where did the red come from, then? Is the lingering smell in the air of rust or magic, liquid life or a meagre substitution, or a dream, or a trick of the light. He does not remember the water at his feet. 

It rises.

 _I will do this_ , he reminds himself. He feels sorrow, and it is uncomfortable but not foreign. A part of being human. _I cannot look back. I pay my debts._

He has read through countless accounts of magical rituals, dismissing the great majority of them as impossible fancies. Rakuzan’s court does not employ sorcerers or exorcists, though numbers abound in the city below, to be used if absolutely necessary. Seijuurou’s own, almost prophetic vision is enough to keep the country prosperous. It is not magic, but hard work and absolute discipline.

Now it is hard to keep his senses sharp as the cold water rises to his sides, starting to numb his skin. _This is not losing. This is temporary._

Still, he cannot help but wonder as Mayuzumi moves closer, whether _the heart_ is metaphorical or not. The moon seems impossibly large outside his window, its translucent curtains shimmering in the wind. 

Seijuurou looks into Mayuzumi’s eyes, and sees two things,

(A man, he sees a man, his face unlined and older than time. He is disdainful and proud, his eyes a wintry grey. The red has seeped into his pale skin, following the lines of his eyes, curling down just above his cheekbones. A hint of weariness hangs about the air around him, like mist in soft rain, and he smiles.

 _It is different from the first time._ Before Seijuurou can quantify the difference, the image shifts.

He sees a beast, a white fox, larger than any he had seen before on the many, many cloistered hunting trips that now seemed to have happened in another place, another time, to another person. Its eyes faintly glow, but it is the pulsating _hoshi no tama_ in its mouth that draws Seijuurou’s attention. He feels the wind weave through the air, between the two of them and the nine tails fanning out around the room. 

 _I do not fear_.)

Seijuurou reaches out a hand, commanding, “Show me, then, your world.”

 

 

They dance.

Chihiro does not like to dance, but it is a necessary function. And the ritual is not entirely unpleasant, so to speak.

Their motions make small waves in the cold water. Akashi’s eyes do not leave him as they mimic each other’s movements, closing the gap. Chihiro watches him carefully, sensing only calmness and regality, and a strange desire burning in his eyes. 

(For a moment, Chihiro thinks he is seeing double—a young scarlet-haired child, laughing, holding up his hands to someone the kitsune cannot see; the next moment there is a man in his place, standing impossibly tall at the head of a thousand soldiers. One of his eyes flares gold, and Chihiro feels, for the first time, a chill run down his spine.)

_Akashi Seijuurou is—_

But does it matter anymore, when he has come this far? He takes Akashi’s hand and draws him close, and works his fingers around the other’s neck. A shudder runs between them. The water reacts, sending ripples down the length of the room. Already silver streaks are beginning to show in Akashi’s hair, and Chihiro can see his heart beating underneath semi-translucent skin. 

“You want me,” Akashi says, dispassionately, with an odd, almost gentle smile on his lips. Somehow he is looking downwards, but their eyes meet. “You want to be me.”

 _I want to be human_ , Chihiro thinks, but does not say. _There is a difference_. Right or wrong, it will not stop either of them. His fingers leave imprints in Akashi’s skin, lines thick and thin, and then he reaches for the heart.

There is a loosening, of skin and bone. He sees every vein, every thread of hair on Akashi’s body, laid out bare before him. It is skin-crawling to see, and upon feeling so Chihiro knows the deed is done, almost.

He sees Akashi reach inside him, pulling out his soul. a sense of _wrongness_ permeating his body, and beneath that a deeper, quiet satisfaction.

“Don’t get too full of yourself,” Chihiro whispers, and their hands come together, holding heart and soul. Light fills the room, drawing long, strange shadows on the walls. He gasps as a glaring red burns into his vision; Chihiro cannot see Akashi anymore, but he hears a low keening, animal-like, and he laughs.

_I am—_

As suddenly as it had come the light fades. They fall, making small splashes, but the water is pleasant and comforting. _Warm. It is warm_ , Chihiro thinks, his body feeling light. Images swirl in his mind, bursting into colors of red and gold, and he gives himself to sleep.

The water recedes under falling curtains, draining into the past as his eyes close for the time being.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i lied when i said on tumblr i was gonna combine this part with chapter 2, oops. chapter 2, now 3, is closer to finished now so expect it up this week or early next o/. this was more of a style experiment than an actual chapter so it's really just separate from ch2 for exposition...reasons. 
> 
> please also note the new tags, and the fact that some midotaka will appear in the last chapter.


	3. The Price

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  "I see her then,  
> the pale fair girl, the smile has reached her lips,  
> her skirts so long as she slips, gray-eyed,  
> amused beyond all bearing, from the room.  
> She'd many a mile to go that night.  
> And as she leaves,  
> from my vantage place upon the floor,  
> I see the brush, the tail between her legs;  
> I would have called,  
> but I could speak no more. Tonight she'll be running  
> four-footed, sure-footed, down the white road.
> 
> What if the hunters come?  
> What if they come?
> 
> _Be bold_ , I whisper once, before I die. _But not too bold..._
> 
> And then my tale is done." 
> 
> \- The White Road, Neil Gaiman  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the new tags. I am sorry (for this being pretty much unedited. Not for anything else :'D)
> 
> Edit: Okay, I did fuck up :'D please find the major edit at the very end.

Dawn breaks gradually, and Chihiro wakes first.

The room is as it was, without any sign of water damage, and the curtains are still. He disentangles himself from Akashi’s arms methodically, sitting up in bed. There is not much light outside, the sun obscured by probable stormclouds. A hand shoots out of the covers and grabs his arm.

_It’s strange, being touched by yourself._

“How do I use this,” is the first thing Akashi asks of him. The dulled-eye look doesn’t suit him, Chihiro thinks, but just as well; those eyes are studying him critically. Even someone so composed as Akashi Seijuurou would have difficulty believing in something like this. “This body.”

Chihiro places a hand over his chest, feeling the unfamiliar, reassuring beat of a heart.  _His_ heart. “You get used to it, I guess. Think about what you want to do.” 

“And it happens?”

“Most of the time.”

Akashi considers this. “This is your first time becoming human.”

“Would I be here, if it wasn’t?” There is something else beneath those words that Akashi is trying to get at, but Chihiro is in no mood to wonder why. He reaches out for the other man _—that’s not me anymore, no—_ and realizes his arm falls short by just a bit. A laugh, somewhat mangled, escapes from his throat. “If you want to put it that way.”

“I ought to have you tried for those murders,” Akashi mutters, in a strangely chilling monotone. “And for trying to eat me.”

“What else could I have done? I was being chased.” Chihiro protests, but only halfheartedly. “I was hungry.”

“Hungry.” The word falls between them, and there is a gleam in Akashi’s eye. “Ah. Unwillingly given, it only sustains for a little while.”

“It’s not like you to jump into this without asking first,” Chihiro says, then realizes it is a mistake to ask. Akashi leans forward to close a hand around his neck. “Ah.”

“Just making sure you don’t run away.” Akashi smiles, and there is teeth. His eyes reflect what Chihiro suspects, _I am merely asserting that I am absolute_. “After all, don’t _you_ have an image to maintain now?”

 _Why couldn’t I have found an interesting peasant_ , Chihiro wonders. “ _My_ image, or yours?”

“Don’t tell me you already regret taking my humanity,” Akashi’s lips brush against Chihiro’s forehead in a veritable purr. At this moment Chihiro is almost certain Akashi never had any humanity to begin with. 

“I don’t regret it.” He gingerly pries Akashi’s fingers from his now-fragile neck, wondering in the light of day just how he’d ever thought this was a good idea. Though all things considered, he _was_ indeed tired of wandering. “But I want to live long enough to experience this.”

 

 

Seijuurou alights the top of a thatched house, watching the people mill about beneath him. Nobody notices him, even as he jumps to the ground and walks among them, his mind focused on one thing only.

The guards scarcely give him a look as he walks past them out the north gates, head held high. His footsteps quicken until they do not touch the ground anymore, and he goes past the forest, the pebbled path, beyond the bend of river that snakes halfway across the city like a protective arm. Past the lake that marked, before, the extent of his activities, and higher into the air. Seijuurou breathes in the chilly winter air, fascinated by the way it melts into his lungs without stinging. 

This is the first time he has left the confines of his city unattended, and perhaps the fifth time he’s left at all since his father’s death a year ago. Seijuurou sits on a pine tree, taking in the hazy mountains in the distance that separates his kingdom and the vast wasteland, the sands stretching for miles beyond view. He can see so far now, all these things that belonged to him.

(Do they still?)

Snippets of song bubble up from his memory, foreign, and it takes Seijuurou a moment to realize they are not his. A child running in hazy rain, glowing eyes mirrored in still water—he looks harder, and they dissolve into foam.

This is a dangerous game. He knows this, but what is a game without its risks? Yet…

Seijuurou turns and slips off the branch, disturbing not a single branch this time.

 

 

It isn’t _right_ that he is developing some sort of weird codependence on a twenty-year-old human…ex-human, but, as Chihiro reflects, it is particularly jarring how willingly Akashi went along with his suggestion in the first place.

(Something tells him Akashi had already known what he was getting into long before that moonlit talk.)

Akashi has also probably realized by now that neither of them could actually leave, as much banter as they put between themselves about it. Circumstances, circumstances…Chihiro wonders how much of it is excuse, how much of it is real. How much was him denying the very real possibility that Akashi had long been setting up some elaborate gambit for…what?

Two days have passed already, and with some luck he had successfully called sick to whomever came knocking. It is not a lie, for the most part; he finds it strange how exhausting that ritual could be on a human body. Akashi is out for most of the day, no doubt surveying his kingdom with his newfound freedom and identity. 

With some shock he had registered that Akashi’s memories were _actually_ part of the exchange that had taken place, fragmented as they are. Chihiro is on edge that the other may well have received his own in turn. But there is nothing to reverse that now unless Akashi comes knocking for his heart back. He has his doubts, after replaying what he could of the young lord’s strict upbringing. But humans are fickle creatures after all—

_Am I, now?_

His reflection in the bronze mirror smiles. He has lived through enough to be able to fool most people, as long as they are not Akashi Seijuurou. _I am human now._

The curtains rustle, and Chihiro looks up to see Akashi slip in through the window, completely dry despite the light drizzle outside. “So, you’re back.”

“Do you have a penchant of stating the obvious?” Akashi smiles at him, and he can see sharp teeth. It’s unsettling—and he wonders if that discomfort comes with being human. Chihiro moves the shamisen that he had been playing to the side, to make way. “I heard some interesting rumors today.”

“Oh?”

“The townspeople talk of a man vanishing—mind you, there is no body found.” He pauses. Chihiro takes the time to notice that the lump indicating a bandage around his arm is gone. “An exorcist, they say, taken by demons two nights ago.”

Chihiro keeps his face a careful mask, and thinks of the dagger resting heavy underneath his sash. “And?”

“Just a bit of town gossip to lighten your day.” There is something grating about the wholly insincere tone of voice Akashi uses. Chihiro closes his eyes, feeling the soft breeze wafting in through the open window. “I hope you made yourself useful today.”

 _Why would I care to,_ Chihiro wants to say, but what is the point if he has to, now. “Mibuchi asked if I was getting better. There’s a retinue from Shuutoku arriving in a day or two. Diplomatic visit, but I figured you already know about that.”

Akashi’s eyes hone on him sharply. “No, I didn’t.”

“No?” _Well, that’s something new._

“Midorima Shintarou,” is the only reply he gets, and Chihiro quickly files through his head for the name. Tall, a no-nonsense look in brilliantly green eyes. “It is unlike him to not have written long beforehand.”

“Maybe he’s just passing by.” 

“No,” Akashi says softly, and all Chihiro can hear is trouble. 

 

 

Seijuurou is not infallible. He knows this—just barely. 

(If he were to be presented with the fact that what had caused that to break in the first place was _natural urges_ , he would have laughed it away. He knows it is not that—it is more than this body or the unspoken knowing passed between them, that the strings of their fates had been intertwined since that fateful night fifteen years ago.)

_Who is the fox now?_

He watches the Shuutoku party journey up the steps. It is not exactly a _party_ —Seijuurou can see two foreigners, the rest being Rakuzan escort guards. Midorima stands tall and sweeps up the stairs with a quiet dignity; the other, all smiles, dark-haired…

A hand draws the window close.

“Did you know?” Mayuzumi says, his voice a distant storm, ready. “About…him.”

“I have never seen him before.”

It is the truth. Seijuurou draws back from him, despite the cold worsening each hour. _You are still incomplete_ , the other’s voice drawls in the back of his mind, and he pushes it away further and further in. _Focus_. “If I stay away—”

“He will notice.” Scarlet eyes leave him, momentarily. His voice returns to a dull throb. “If he doesn’t, Midorima will. You know this. He might already have noticed, while we sit here and talk.”

 _How absurd_ , Seijuurou thinks, sharp laughter digging into his throat, threatening to overflow. Midorima would not be the only one. Mayuzumi has played his part with more finesse than Seijuurou had imagined possible, but still—it will come apart. And wouldn’t it be grand, that he was expecting it all along?

He observes the way Mayuzumi’s fingers dig into his clothes, his knees; there is something familiar about that half-grimace, almost-smile, and then he realizes he has seen it before. An empty calm takes him as he reaches out, tilts Mayuzumi’s chin, and lets the laughter through. 

“So, this is what it all comes to.”

And then Mayuzumi _looks_ at him, defiantly. “Why did you trade with me, then?”

 

 

He could blame it on the lifestyle he’d adopted since coming to Rakuzan. He could blame it on forgetfulness, on Akashi, on all the things that had transpired since he stepped foot onto this godforsaken land again.

_Always expect hunters._

Chihiro has done so, more or less. He had managed to evade almost every single one until now, and few had taken notice of him to begin with. Akashi had been wrong about one thing—fifteen years ago, he _had_ gotten caught.

He wonders if Akashi could remember in his stead, the blade coming down, the shadows shifting, the scream that had come underneath him. Chihiro had thought nothing of it then, watching the life flee from the man’s clouding eyes, eyes that were once so sharp.

His name had been Takao Kichirou.

Now Chihiro sits on Akashi’s rightful place, his face a careful mask as the Shuutoku party makes its presence known. Midorima Shintarou murmurs a soft greeting. Chihiro returns it in Akashi’s usual fashion, and feels Takao Kazunari’s eyes studying his every move.

“Akashi,” Midorima says gravely, as if relaying a passing. “I know you must be wondering why I’ve come here so urgently.”

“And why is that?”

“Well—“ He hesitates; Chihiro watches Takao smile at him, gently, and whisper something in his ear. “You remember, what you told me—the murderer from fifteen years ago.”

His words are composed carefully, leveraged for the most impact. Chihiro levies him one of Akashi’s inscrutable stares, hoping it is answer enough that he does _not_ , in fact, think his personal memories an appropriate topic to discuss in front of strangers.

Midorima keeps talking.

(Later, when he looks back, he would think: this was the first sign.)

“We have reason to believe that he is hiding here, in Rakuzan.”

Beside him, Chihiro can see Mibuchi’s eyes narrow; this is a slight, an accusation, though all of it true. He does what Akashi would’ve done.

“And why do you believe that?”

“Two months ago—“

“You waited _two months_ to tell me.”

Midorima has the nerve to look _affronted_ —it would even be humorous, Chihiro thinks, if this wasn’t his life on the line. Despite the lingering memories Akashi had left him he does not know the full extent of his relationship with Shuutoku, the kingdom to the west. Human lands and human faces—they change as swiftly as the sun rises and falls. And he, human now—he would still rise and fall with it on his own terms. Not by these decrees.

“We had to be sure,” Midorima is saying, quieter now, and beckons Takao, who brings forth something small and round. Chihiro leans forward, watching Midorima open the case and produce a small pendant. It looks and feels vaguely familiar— _lucky items_ , whispers Akashi’s phantom memories in the back of his head. _That must be it_. “Precautions.”

Chihiro sighs and holds out a hand. “If you so wish.”

 

It is easy enough to deceive one’s way into this world. All you need is a bit of luck and a bit of magic, and above all knowing to stay out of focus when time calls for it. Most humans are content to being deceived, as long as they never know the fullest extent of that deception—it is a defense mechanism, that pretension of not knowing.

This is different. This is new.

Chihiro can’t say that it doesn’t excite him, as much as he would like to deny it. The very real prospect of _not knowing_ what the next day will bring is a constant as much as his life was while on the road, but he has to tread even more carefully, now.

As for Akashi— 

The door is closed and locked. He watches Akashi emerge from the shadows, and wonders how _could_ someone like him stand to stay hidden and still, and be content in the wake of others’ strides.

(This is the second sign, and he discards it unwittingly, focusing on the irregular beat of his heart.)

“You need to eat,” is the first thing he says, seeing how pale Akashi has become. Chihiro does not keep tabs on him the same way Akashi used to for him, but even he can tell from the dullness of Akashi’s hair that he has yet to fully recover. “Go find a village somewhere else if you don’t want to eat your own people.”

“Not until they are gone,” Akashi replies. He does not look at Chihiro; the window is open, and the skies are a uniform slate-grey. Snow will fall, soon, the last one of the season. He turns his attention towards the shogi board laid out on the mats. “Chihiro.”

“Hm?”

“Have you…” Chihiro sees his grip tighten on the window frame. Only a bit, but it is a wonder what these eyes can see now—and a wonder what could possibly cause Akashi to do so. His grip loosens. “This body. I hear, I see, I can feel the slightest breeze in the air. It is exhilarating. But at the same time I cannot understand, why I am unsatisfied.”

There is something terrifyingly normal hearing Akashi utter this, a triumphant, bitter revelation that there are things that can get to him after all. “Better get used to it.”

(In the back of his mind there is a small whisper of _but you wanted to know, didn’t you_ in Akashi’s fine silky voice, and he knocks one of the shogi pieces over.)

 

 

Seijuurou watches the festivities commence from atop a wall, hidden from view. Guests, after all, are to be entertained, no matter how small their number.

(Though this had not been Mayuzumi’s idea, and he doesn’t doubt the confusion that would later come.)

Dusk has begun to settle, and the fires are lit one by one. The music starts, drumbeats hastening into rhythm, followed by the plucking of streamed instruments. Two dancers come into view on the raised platform, their faces obscured with masks of red and white. From his vantage point Seijuurou could see each audience member clearly: Takao’s amusement, Midorima’s thoughtful gaze.

A phantom beat skips in his chest, hollow now, as he turns his attention towards Mayuzumi’s outrage, the slight widening of the eye that only Seijuurou could see and understand. The dance starts, an quick, unfamiliar series of steps—even for someone of his tastes, Seijuurou does not often watch kabuki. 

The music turns and twists, and the dancers along with it, animal-like, god-like, but still all too human. Seijuurou’s mouth twists as the kitsune markings of the mask flash towards him briefly, firelight glancing off the smooth surfaces. 

_Perhaps I am a little cruel._

Seijuurou leans closer, and Mayuzumi takes his eyes off the dance. Their gazes meet, briefly, and he knows he’s been spotted. Shuutoku continues to be captivated; Seijuurou’s hand strays, however slightly.

(He could end this now, pull out the bow hidden behind. He could test, now, the potency of Midorima’s _lucky item_ , but even without it Seijuurou knows the arrow will still fly true. _It will not harm the body_ , he could hear Midorima say. Any blade would do, not just Takao’s.

He also knows Mayuzumi in this moment would not choose to run.)

 

_—Have you ever known love?_

 

Seijuurou raises his hand, brushing a stray strand of hair our of his eyes as the dancers move into their final act. He leaves before they finish, and what was hidden stays so.

 

 

In a way, Chihiro is relieved.

Should he want to, he doesn’t even have to pretend anymore. Now, in the lull before anyone makes a move, before Midorima and Takao inevitably barrel through the guards into his room, before Akashi comes in through the window for the last time, there could be any number of possibilities. 

It doesn’t take a kitsune’s supernatural senses—or these eyes—to decipher the look that had passed between them during the dance. Chihiro had personally escorted Midorima to retire in the guest quarters, and watched Takao depart to explore the city. The rest of the courtiers are in the rooms below. He is alone, for now.

( _Not quite_ , murmurs Akashi, the Akashi-in-his-head, who he might for all he knows be dreaming up in a humanity-induced delirium. _I’m here._ )

“I know that,” he says to the empty corridor. “I know you’re here.”

He opens the door and Akashi is there, standing beside his bed. The moon is hidden tonight, and so a single lamp illuminates the room. “Hey.”

“I thought you wouldn’t want to see me anymore.”

“I don’t.” Chihiro takes a deep breath, and tries to ignore the peony petals scattered about his bed. He closes the door. “I’m not stupid enough or hate myself enough to throw my life away for you. Whatever you’ve planned. Whatever _they’ve_ planned.”

“Why are you telling me then?” Akashi asks smoothly, as he was wont to do, and comes closer. Chihiro does not move, though he can see that Akashi is, for some reason, not meeting his gaze. _That’s a first._ “You could’ve left. This would have become solely _my_ problem, wouldn’t it?”

“Don’t I deserve some kind of explanation?” Chihiro replies, with more calm than he had ever thought possible. He hates it, and tries to conjure up a more fitting tone. “A _good reason_ for fucking conspiring with them?”

“I owe Shintarou a debt. And he…” 

“They’re together, aren’t they.” 

The fact is an unsurprising revelation Chihiro had gathered barely five minutes into talking with Midorima. The fact that Akashi is, and quite obviously by the look in his eyes, _bothered_ —is an entirely different matter.

 _Don’t you see_ , the voice in his head says, sadly, desperately, perhaps imaginarily, and Chihiro finds Akashi reaching towards his neck. In one fluid motion he rips away the pendant. _This is another cheap trick, some ploy for forgiveness_ ; Chihiro himself has done this before to a thousand other people in a thousand other lifetimes. His fingers tighten around the dagger, and opens his mouth—

_This is what it means, to be human…isn’t it?_

“—Let me have one last request, then.”

 

 

Years ago, before his father had ordered the gates closed to him, before his mother had called him to her bedside for the last time, Seijuurou used to take his studies with Midorima once every two months. It had been something of a respite, to spend time with a similar-aged boy. 

“Do you know,” Midorima had asked one day, during a lull in which they had run out of songs to play and poems to copy, “how to cheer someone up?”

He had asked it in the shy, awkward way of an eight-year-old boy, and Seijuurou, likeminded, didn’t understand completely. “What do you mean?”

“There’s this boy,” Midorima began, brows furrowed intensely as he scrubbed at a spot of ink on his sleeve. “In court. Father brought him in the other day, and he won’t stop badgering me.”

“Don’t you mean you want him to stop?”

“Yes! I do. It is annoying. But…” Here his voice became quiet, trailing off. “Mother told me Takao’s father left him around this time, a couple years ago. Maybe…maybe he’ll stop bothering me if his father comes back…?”

Seijuurou had heard the name before. “But he won’t be.”

“Why not?”

“Shintarou…”

 

Seijuurou could remember, even now, seeing Midorima’s expression falter as he relayed the story. The Midorima Shintarou sitting at his guest’s bed now is older, taller, and does not ask about cheering up children anymore. But he has not changed so much.

“Akashi.”

“So you can tell,” Seijuurou smiles at him, and Midorima starts, blinking rapidly. "It's me."

“You…” There is some hesitation in his voice, but he stands up and takes a step towards the door. “Is it done? You look…not well.”

“There is someone who looks worse than me right now.” Seijuurou holds out a hand, and drops the pendant onto the bed, its strings frayed and broken. He can feel the throb on his arm, still, a phantom pain. It exists elsewhere, now. “You don’t believe me.”

“Your wording is evasive,” Midorima accuses, though halfheartedly. “I would know, after—“

“You’d better hurry, then.”

“Hm?”

Seijuurou holds out the dagger at him, handle out. Its blade is clean, and Midorima stiffens. _Don’t_ , a voice in his head says, and it sounds oddly familiar. “Don’t make me say it twice. _You_ are the one who said you’d do anything for Takao, are you not?”

_Make me say it again, a hundred thousand times, and there will be as many chances to disappear…_

Midorima stares at him, uncomprehending, but he takes the blade nonetheless.

 

 _(It is worse with a heart_ , Seijuurou reflects, and he follows.)

 

 

Chihiro had been right, but knowing that brings no favors; he can feel himself slowing with every step, as the forest closes into complete darkness.

_I will return your heart. After that, I will leave._

He had seen it all in Akashi’s eyes, as the other had leaned down to kiss him one last time: _you will die here, or you will die running_. _I wish it had not turned out this way._

 _You wish you could have only used me without feeling_ , Chihiro had said, still angry, _but I have made the same mistake._

_But know that you will never be the same again, after living in this body. That is the real price, Akashi Seijuurou._

There is someone following him; even in this state, he can still discern the scent of a human hunter. The branches snag at his clothes, ripping and tearing the white fabric apart. He would need it no longer, in the place he is headed.

Takao is not alone, Chihiro observes, but that is the last thing he thinks before he falls to the frozen ground.

Something ripples through the air above him, but he, four-footed now, takes no notice of it. The trees part for him easier than before, and he darts through bramble and fallen branches, past looming rock and shallow ditches. Burrs catch and hang in his white fur, though he feels none of these things.

He can read Akashi’s final moments in his skin, _I have a duty_ and _I wish you could stay_. More arrows fly overhead, and one of them grazes his cheek. The pangs of hunger pinch at his stomach, agonizing.

Chihiro trips over a protruding root and tumbles, the rocks bruising him, to the foot of the hill. He sees dim light reflected off the water, from a sliver of moon peeking from behind the clouds. The lake sits before him, spanning a diameter of unimaginable length. Once, he could’ve easily leapt across…

The rustle of foliage from behind hurries him, and he starts along the outer edge of the lake, on a newly frozen layer of snow. It is solid and reassuring beneath him, and so he goes.

“Over there!”

“I see him!”

Chihiro is almost across when the ice starts to crack. 

He dodges a wide chasm, skittering to the left. Another jump, _almost there_ —he could see the shoreline before him, and the vast, forbidding, even deeper forest of the mountains. Beyond that was the desert he had journeyed across, in skin that had seemed like someone else’s, years and years ago. He leaps—

 

_“Chihiro!”_

 

Something hits him in the side, a white-hot searing pain, and he hits the ground just beyond the shore. He knows before he opens his eyes to see—it is the dagger, tied to a broken arrow, lodged deep. The red fletching gleams as Akashi’s voice echoes in his head; he can see them across the lake: Midorima with the bow, Takao beside him, and…

_You once asked me, what I have been searching for._

He drags himself into the forest slowly, painfully, to a place the humans could not follow. The roots of the trees seem to creep around his feet. His vision blurs, and he leans against a trunk, its smooth bark cold and damp.

_A place to rest. I will rest here for a while…_

_It might have been a trick of the light_ , Chihiro thinks as his eyes close, aware of the numbing that had begun to spread around his wound. His lips curl upward.  _Akashi was…_

 

 

 

The next morning, Seijuurou asks Mibuchi and Hayama to send off his guests.

He takes Yukimaru through the side gate, a small opening used so infrequently by either commoner or courtier that the guards stammered their way through letting him leave. 

Seijuurou heads south, his heartbeat slower, his eyes sharper, his memories smoke and mirrors.

The snow is already half-melted by the time he reaches the lake, man and horse staying close to the shoreline as they round the expanse. Akashi has never seen this lake unfrozen before, the wind sending soft ripples near shore. It is the first day of spring, he realizes, counting the solar terms in his head.

When he reaches the other shore, he finds drag marks on the ground, and burrs from trees that do not grow on the far side. Yukimaru sniffs at the ground and whinnies. Seijuurou touches the horse’s mane, then swings down from the saddle. Here was a place that animals knew to not enter.

He follows the trail into the forest, and catches sight of something red. The broken arrow and knife are half-buried in the thawing dirt, side by side, and Seijuurou reaches down to pluck a red feather, tangled in with something white. Fur, he thinks, and the wind, stronger now, blows it away. It does not get into his eye this time.

 

(Strange, how the wind carries a scent of peonies.)


End file.
